


in thorns we burn

by ghostsoldier



Category: Bully: Scholarship Edition
Genre: Boarding School, Canon-Typical Violence, High School, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Mildly Dubious Consent, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 03:47:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostsoldier/pseuds/ghostsoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things fall apart. A relationship in ten fragments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in thorns we burn

**Author's Note:**

> In the game, Gary Smith is...not a very nice guy. He's also portrayed as pretty unbalanced. Given that it's a Rockstar game, this portrayal isn't particularly subtle, so I wanted to explore it a little. If he's such a terrible person, why on earth does Petey consider him a friend? Originally written and posted in 2007.
> 
> Warnings: section IV contains physical violence by one character against another, and sections V and VI contain mild dub-con.

**I.**  


  


You're not friends, exactly. You barely even know him. But you don't have any friends and he didn’t either, and so it makes sense that your lack of connections should be a connection in and of itself. When he invites you to his family's lakehouse for two weeks a little before the term starts, it surprises you more that it doesn't surprise you. It's disappointing that you're both bored just a few days into it. You'd think the lake would be more entertaining.

He's lying back on a scrubby patch of grass, his eyes closed. "So what should we do today?" His voice sounds as bored as he looks. "Stare at the clouds? Drown ourselves?"

You hug your knees to your chest. "I don't know." His shirt is riding up, and you can't stop staring at the tan sliver of his stomach. "What do you want to do?"

"...play video games? Get sick on funnel cake? _Again_? Make out? Throw ourselves off that rickety excuse of a roller coaster?"

It's thrown in there so casually that you're almost not sure you heard correctly. "Wait. What? Make out?"

He pushes himself up on his elbows and squints at you. The sun in your eyes makes it hard to read his expression, but you think he's amused. Or disdainful. With Gary, it's sometimes hard to tell the difference.

"Yeah. You interested?"

"I..." This feeling in your chest, you're not quite sure what it is. Terror, probably, but also a horrible sort of excitement. Those nights lying awake thinking about the locker room, the shame, the vague curiosity of wondering what _those_ hands might feel like or how _those_ lips might taste, is it possible he…

 _Could_ you?

You lean forward and lower your voice. No one’s around to hear your conversation, but there's something about him that makes you want to be quiet with this, like if you're not careful your words might incinerate the tenuous connection you've somehow made. Held in his bright, maybe-amused stare, you say, "I...didn't know you liked guys."

"Petey!" His voice startles you. It's too loud for the bubble of quiet you've tried to create. "You were actually _considering_ it?! Oh, this is too funny. I was just _joking_ …”

Your heart sinks at the amusement in his voice, and you wonder if maybe you should just drown yourself after all. Anything would be better than his sheer scandalized delight. He's still talking when you grab his arm, but when you lean your face in close he goes silent again.

Almost.

"What, are you going to kiss me now?"

You want to throttle him. "You can't _tell_ anybody," you hiss. Fear and anger make your voice tremble, like a stupid girl's. "You can't."

His eyes go wide. "Oh my God," he breathes. "You really _are_. I was just teasing you!" His shock is quieter this time but no less amused, and if he cut out your heart with a rusted scalpel and _ate_ it you don't think it would be any worse than the sick knot clenching now in your stomach. "Do you stare at the other boys in the locker room? You little _perv_ , Petey, I didn't think you had it in you."

You shove away from him and stumble to your feet, unsure if you're going to scream or cry or hit him or all three. From behind you, you can hear him yelling your name, but you just keep going, faster now, breaking into a run when you hear him coming up from behind and it's not until he outright tackles you that you fall to the sand in an angry tangle of arms and legs.

"Get _off_!"

It's embarrassing how easily he pins you. "Will you calm the hell down?" he snaps when you try to struggle free. "You're such a girl sometimes."

"You can't tell anybody."

"'You can't tell anybody,'" he mimics. "You're not my mom, Kowalski. Don't tell me what to do."

"Gary! You _can't_."

Maybe it's the desperation in your voice, or maybe it's that he's getting bored with the whole thing. Either way, he gives you a long, considering look before he finally backs off and lets you get up. Silent as he watches you brush the sand off, his eyes hooded, before he finally says, "If it'll make you stop being such a whiny little girl, then no, I won't tell anybody."

You suppose you'll have to make do with that.

 

  
**II.**   


  


The way his mind works, you really don't get it. He's pissed off, so he kisses you? You're pretty sure he was trying to prove a point about something, but you have no idea what it is anymore because his hands are gripping your shoulders tight and his mouth is on yours, and you can't decide whether this is the best or the worst thing that's ever happened to you.

Ah, you remember now. He can't (won't) let the gay thing drop and wanted to know if you thought about him. _That_ way. You told him no (meaning: yes) because you thought it was what he wanted to hear -- after all, what normal straight guy wants his stupid gay friend to think about him in the shower? -- but you're learning that Gary has this weird competitive streak to him and so instead of being relieved at the confession, he just got mad. Apparently, you think you're too good for him. Also, you think he's a bad kisser.

Sometimes, you suspect that there are conversations happening in Gary's head that no one else can hear.

So of course you protest that you're sure he kisses fine, but then he moves up close to you on the couch, his eyes all crazy-intense the way they get when you're beating him at video games. "I'll _prove_ it to you," he says.

And he kisses you.

You're so startled that he actually did it that you don't think to kiss back. A small, shocked noise escapes before you have a chance to stifle it.

When he pulls back, his eyes are narrow and his cheeks are red. "Well?"

All you can do is stare at him. For all his earlier protesting, he's not actually a very good kisser, although maybe that's because you just sat there like a rock and made him do all the work. His expression tightens at your silence and he starts to pull away, and you blurt out, "Wait!"

His wariness. That sense of barely-banked anger just beneath the surface of his skin. You want to touch him. "I wasn't ready," you say, and relief surges in your stomach when the hardness in his eyes fades.

This time, you kiss him back. He's still clumsy, a little rough, but it's not like you're the world's best kisser either. You think maybe this is the first time he's ever kissed anyone too, which makes you feel weird, kind of stupidly happy and turned on at the same time. The soft, warm slick of his tongue touching yours makes you whimper, and you can’t help but twist closer, _anything_ for him to keep kissing you like that. When the kiss finally breaks, you’re gratified to see that he’s just as breathless as you are. His hair is mussed, his mouth hovers just over yours. The expression on his face is an odd mix of ferocity and tenderness.

"You don't get to do this with anyone else," he says abruptly.

"How come?" It's not that you want to; you're just curious. Yesterday, you weren't even sure he liked you all that much as a friend, and today you're making out on his parent's couch. You keep telling yourself you shouldn't be surprised by anything he does, and yet here you are. Surprised.

Stupid Gary. "What do you mean, 'how come?'" he snaps. Your noses are practically touching, he's so close. A little nervously, you wonder if he bites. "Who exactly do you plan on _doing_ this with?"

"Nobody! Geez." You shove on his chest to make him loosen his grip on your shoulders. "Calm down, would you? That hurts."

He doesn't move. "You're _mine_ ," he says. Scary-quiet, almost desperate. Angry. "You don't get to do this with anyone else because you're _mine_."

Absurdly, you want to kiss him again. But...

"You don't get to do this with anyone else either," you say.

He actually has the nerve to look surprised. "Of course I can. I can do whatever the hell I want."

You're prepared for the wave of irritation; what you're unprepared for is the sick knot clenching hard in your stomach. It's like the moment he found out your secret, only a hundred times worse, and you can't get the images out of your head, girls, boys, whatever, like he'd even care about the difference. He doesn't care. Since when does he care? Maybe you're just _convenient_.

You must look absolutely stricken, because he rolls his eyes and says, "What, are you going to cry now? Fine. If it makes you _feel_ better, I won't do it with anyone else. Satisfied?"

It's pathetic, but you are. "I guess."

"Good." He grins. "So are we going to make out again or what?"

He tells you later that you can't tell anyone about this, ever, and you try to not to feel too disappointed because you know you should've expected that. Even so, it doesn't seem entirely fair, especially since you're hardly the only ones. You've both heard the rumors. Most of them probably aren't true, but there wouldn't be so many if there wasn't a hint of truth in at least some of them. But Gary just shakes his head. He won't stop touching you, which makes it very hard to concentrate.

"We can't," he says. "I've got plans, Petey-boy. Big, big plans."

"So you're going to...what? Ignore me when we get back to school? Go back to being a jerk?"

"I'm not a jerk. I'm just creative in how I conduct my friendships."

"Right." You twist a little so you can look at him. His arms are folded on your chest and he's looking at you with something close to fondness, and in spite of the subject of your conversation you can't help but feel ridiculously happy. "You're a jerk."

“And you’re a dork.” He pushes up and kisses you once, quickly, the gesture uncharacteristically sweet. “We’re even.”

“Whatever you say, Gary,” you tell him, smiling, and rest your hand against the curve of his skull as he settles atop your chest again.

 

  


**III.**  


  


The size of his medication collection is astonishing. All these little pills with endings like _-orizine_ or _-anipam_ , some that he's supposed to take twice a day. To look at it all you'd think he was terminally ill, but he just laughs when you tell him that.

"Apparently I'm _maladjusted_ or something," he says. He slams the lid of his trunk, hiding the white and orange pill bottles from view. "A hefty serving of ADD with a side of sociopathic tendencies, just a pinch of mania for piquancy and flavor." His laugh is startling and somehow infectious. "They thought I was schizo for a while, can you believe that? God, my parents. Just because I stole a few cars..."

Your eyes widen at that and he laughs again, punches your shoulder. "I'm _kidding_. Sheesh, you believe everything I tell you. Forget about growing balls -- you need to grow a brain first."

"Ha ha, very funny." You rub your arm where he punched you. "You ready to go study?" Thinking: this is what he's like when he's medicated?

"Yeah, sure, whatever. Let's get it over with." He suddenly slings his arm around your shoulders and ruffles your hair, rough affection in his touch. You lean into him in spite of yourself. "Don't ever change, Petey."

Later, you notice white and orange pill bottles in the trash cans around the boy's dorm, chock full of pills and caplets to a one. You never think to check the name on the bottles -- you don't really notice them _period_ , other than in passing -- but it's one of those details that haunts you, after.

 

  
**IV.**  


  
There are cracks appearing in his geography, but you don't know what they mean. After all, he's always been a little rough -- the way he acts with you sometimes reminds you of annoying boys in kindergarten who pulled on the pigtails of the girls they liked -- but there was underlying affection there and you always thought he just didn't know how to deal with that. You're both guys, after all. It makes sense that it's not all sweetness and flowers.

But then he pushes too far. And then he starts pushing more. And where he once might've given you an awkward sideways hug and mussed up your hair, he now puts you in a half-nelson headlock and holds it until you give in and say whatever it is that he wants you to say. He's not hurting you, but it's weird. Every time you bring it up, he laughs it off.

"I'm just playing around with you." He bumps you with his shoulder and grins. "You're so _sensitive_. Little femme boy."

You _hate_ that name, and he finds that funny too. He finds a lot of odd stuff funny now. He hardly sleeps anymore and he talks, constantly, but there's a sharp edge to his laugh that wasn't there before and you're beginning to get unnerved. If he was like this only when you were both around other people, you'd guess he was trying to divert attention from the sort-of relationship you had -- kind of a jerk thing to do, but he’s gotten paranoid about what other people think and you wouldn’t put it past him. But the strangeness bleeds into when you're alone too, and that's what makes you worry.

Maybe he doesn't like you that much anymore.

But then sometimes he smiles that smile, the one you remember from the summer, where it's all just teeth and happy and something warm in your chest squeezes tight at the sight of it, because that smile is only ever directed at _you_ and that has to mean something. It _has_ to. He sneaks into your room at night and says things like, "You're still mine, right?" and sometimes when you touch him it looks like he's shattering. He buries his face in your neck and whimpers, "You're mine, you're _mine_ " as he rocks against you, and you never, ever disagree with him. He shudders every time you whisper his name.

You think you might be in love with him.

How's that for pathetic?

So there are two Gary's, nighttime Gary and daytime Gary, only nighttime Gary appears less and less and you feel like you're drowning because there's something scary about the way daytime Gary smiles. "Stop hitting yourself," he says, and it's always been a stupid, elementary school thing to do, but at least he used to _stop_ when you told him to. Fewer rough boyhugs, more noogies and Indian burns. You wonder when it's going to _end_.

Then, one day, he hurts you.

It's because you beat him at Street Racer again. This kind of thing, it always turns physical with you, because he's a sore loser as it is and you always end up mopping the floor with him when it comes to video games. Truth be told, you don't mind the roughhousing -- it gives you an excuse to touch him in public and the wrestling around brings the two of you pretty close sometimes, and deep down you suspect he does it for the same reasons you're happy to let it happen. It's sad, the ways you try to be closer to each other.

But this time, instead of the usual scuffling he just cuts the whole thing short and twists your arm up behind your back. It's uncomfortable, but it doesn't actually hurt.

"Say I won," he says. His teeth touch your ear. "Say it."

"Fine." You roll your eyes. "You won. Happy?"

It's like he's irritated that you gave in so easily. "Now say you're in love with Algernon."

"What?" You try to squirm out of his grip, to no avail. "No!"

"Oh, _come_ on." He's grinning, you can tell, even though you can't see his face. "It's the perfect time and place to declare your passion. Petey and Algie, star-crossed lovers to the end! Say you want to _do_ him, Petey."

"No! Knock it off!" And this is the thing that bothers you, when he gets like this, because it's not about touching or awkwardness or being guys, but about him being a jerk and having to win all the damn time. It stopped being funny the moment his hand closed around your wrist.

"Say it, Petey," he says, and just like that all the amusement has gone out of his voice. You're on some weird, dark precipice where you can't tell what he's thinking, and you don't know what he's trying to prove anymore. "Say it, or I'll make you."

"By doing what, breaking my arm? I don't think so." You shove backwards, trying to buck him off, and he makes an irritated noise and twists your arm up. Much too hard, much too sharp. You can tell from the pop in your shoulder that it's going to hurt but even you're surprised by the bright hot flare of _pain_ that appears, and your startled cry is far too loud in the tiny room. Gary releases you so fast it's like you burned him.

"What the hell was that for?" you yell. Your eyes are stinging, and you're not sure what's worse -- the hurt itself, or the fact that he was the one who did it to you. "What the _fuck_ , Gary?"

"I'm...I'm sorry." He rakes his fingers through his hair, looking lost. "I didn't mean to do that."

"Yeah, well, you did." The dull throb in your shoulder is making you sullen, and normally that would irritate him, but he still looks shaken and doesn't seem to notice.

"I'm sorry," he says again, and in spite of yourself you feel a little bit of your anger subside. He seems genuinely upset by the whole thing, and that never happens.

"Just...no more of that, okay?" You rub your arm, wince. "You're a lot stronger than me."

"Yeah," he says, "sure," but you notice he doesn't touch you at all after that for the rest of the night. Not once. And he doesn't come to your room either, not that night, not the next, and after a week of him avoiding all contact you try to kiss him when you're both alone and he pushes you back so hard you stumble over your own feet.

"Get _off_ ," he snarls. "I'm not your fucking boyfriend."

This tight, bleak feeling in your chest, it's like your heart is breaking. Nothing is the same after that.

 

  
**V.**  


  
On Halloween night he waits for you in your room. It’s the noise that tips you off -- he can’t seem to sit still anymore and he’s taken to drumming on things, his legs, a table, a chair, whatever’s handy. You saw him walking around in his SS uniform earlier and the distinct _whick-whick_ of his riding crop on your desk is instantly recognizable. Hesitantly, you push the door open and flinch back from the unabashed glee in his grin.

“Petey! Happy Halloween!” He’s sprawled in your chair, legs spread, still drumming the riding crop against your desk in an increasingly rapid cadence. “Check out the costume I got you.”

Unbidden, your eyes move to the bed and…

“No. No way.”

“Awwww, come on.” There’s a creak of leather as he gets up, and then he’s behind you, one arm around you, tapping the riding crop against your chest. “It’ll be _fun_.”

“I’m not dressing as a giant pink rabbit! Do you know what people will do to me if I go out in public like this?” The way the costume is laid out on your bed, it looks like a fuzzy pink corpse. “They’ll beat the crap out of me, that’s what.”

The riding crop travels up and presses against the soft skin of your throat. “ _I’ll_ beat the crap out of you if you don’t put it the hell on,” Gary says.

You swallow. You don’t want to believe he’d do it, but...your stomach knots in memory of the way he’d kneed you in the junk just a few weeks ago. He’d laughed.

“Fine.” You can see the trash cans now, the lockers you’re sure to be shoved into, the fists that will connect with your stomach and your face. “I’ll put on the stupid costume.”

“Good boy.” He nudges your chin up with the riding crop and presses his mouth to your neck. You gasp. Warm, wet flare of his tongue, the sudden sting of teeth, and the cool air rushes against your back as he’s gone again. His voice floats back to you from the hallway.

“See you in a few minutes, femme boy! _Don’t_ be late.”

You sigh and put on the damn costume. You can still feel his tongue against your neck.

 

  
**VI.**  


  
You wake in a blind panic to a darkened room, a body pressed against yours, a hand over your mouth.

No. _No_.

"Wakey wakey, Petey-boy." Lips against your ear, hot breath. "Relaaaax." He's got your arms pinned so you can't do much more than squirm and you'd recognize that voice anywhere, but relaxing is pretty much the last thing you want to do at this point. You do, and he's liable to stick a knife between your ribs.

You really have no idea what he's capable of, at this point.

Murder is probably out (you hope), but he seems more off-kilter every time you see him now and you're a little afraid of what will happen when he finally _breaks_. If he hasn't broken already, that is. You twist your head to try to see him better, and in the dim light afforded by your half-open curtains you can just make out the flash of his teeth and the over-bright mania in his eyes.

"It's been a while since we've talked," he's saying. It's almost ridiculous how conversational he is, like he's _not_ holding you down with a hand over your mouth so you can't call for help or get away. It's probably sort of sick that you're hyper-aware of how his body feels pressed against yours, all those little points of contact like pin prickles zipping through your nerve endings. He used to do this back before he went off his meds, sneak into your room in the middle of the night, whisper things in your ear, but that was a different time and a different Gary, and you don't know what it means that he's here again. "I guess you don't have time for me now that you're Hopkins' little lapdog, huh?"

"Mmnpjh!"

He cocks his head. "What's that? Didn't quite catch you, Petey."

Now you do struggle, because whatever game he's playing isn't remotely funny and he's scaring the crap out of you. The shiny coins of his eyes, the morbid cheeriness in his voice. He lets you fight just long enough to prove that he doesn't have to let you go if he doesn't want to, and then he releases you. You're across the room so fast you don't even remember moving.

"What the hell you doing here?"

"Trying to figure out why you were so quick to replace me." His voice goes hard. "I thought we were _friends_ , Petey."

You sneak a glance at the clock -- 2:00 am. Gary’s snuck into your room at two in the morning to talk about your relationship. If you weren’t so unnerved right now, you might laugh. From the look on his face, though, you get the feeling that wouldn’t be a good idea. You edge back a little more, and say, “We are friends.”

“No. No we’re _not_. You’re _his_ friend now.” All of sudden, he’s between you and the door. “So tell me about your _friend_ , Petey. Do you give each other makeovers? Do each other’s hair? Talk about your feeeeelings?” He’s moving closer now, his voice getting sharper. You keep backing up until you hit the wall and still he’s coming, and now he’s close enough that you can see him shaking. His voice is dangerously quiet. “Does he _fuck_ you?”

What.

What?!

“No!” You wouldn’t be more surprised if he suddenly dropped to one knee and proposed. “Me and Jimmy? Are you crazy?!”

Whoops. Wrong thing to say. He grabs your shoulders and shakes you once, his teeth bared. “Crazy? _I’m_ crazy? The way you two are always conspiring, does he, what, stick his tongue down your throat as soon as my back is turned? Is that how it is?”

“No.” Your voice is hoarse with fear and shock. “That’s not how it is. It’s not, I mean, I haven’t…”

Gary’s eyes narrow. “I’m not stupid,” he says. “I see the way he looks at you. The way you look at him.” Just over the curve of his shoulder you can see the door. If you could get past him…

You cut to the right but he’s too fast for you and grabs your wrist, slams it back against the wall hard enough that you gasp with pain and surprise. “I bet you two were laughing about it, weren’t you? Crazy old Gary, right?” The jut of his hipbone is sharp against yours, and the hand that’s gripping your wrist is trembling. “But I’m not crazy, Petey. I see _everything_.”

This can’t be happening. You can (oh God) smell him, a mélange of shampoo and sweat and laundry detergent that’s overwhelming and achingly familiar. You shouldn’t want this. He turned on you. But his eyes are dark and his breath is coming quickly now, and you’re so close that you can see the muscles twitching in his jaw. Tense. His grip tightens in warning when you shift. “Don’t.”

There’s a rushing sound in your ears. “I’m not…” you whisper, and you don’t know how to finish but it doesn’t matter anyway because he’s kissing you, or rather, you’re kissing him, hard and desperate and _wet_ , and he doesn’t have to pin you to the wall anymore because you’re clinging to him like ivy on brick. Heat like a furnace, the solidity of his body; you can’t remember the last time you felt this frantic.

His mouth skids over your jaw and you’re fumbling at his zipper; you whimper when he grabs your hand and forces it against the wall again. “What--?”

He presses his palm to the front of your cotton pajama pants and you arch helplessly. “Petey doesn’t get to touch,” he rasps. He tongues your ear, making you squirm. “He’s been _bad_.”

Oh, Jesus. Even through the thick fabric, you swear you could feel every whorl of his fingerprints, every line of his palm. He strokes you roughly through the cloth, once, enough to make you shudder, and then he slides his hand beneath your waistband. The fingers that close around you are hot and dry. Your breath stutters.

“You like that?” Gary whispers. He squeezes; your chest hitches. Your traitorous body. You keep arching into the loose circle of his fist. He squeezes again. “You like when I do this?”

“…yes.”

“I can’t hear you.”

“ _Yes_.” Stroke. It’s dry enough that your body can’t decide whether the friction hurts or feels really, _really_ good, and the sound you make when he does it again is low and shameless, utterly embarrassing. He won’t stop talking, and it’s almost disturbing how his voice affects you almost as much as the hand on your dick does.

“You like when I jerk you off, huh? Like when I touch you? You like when I do this?” If you weren’t already so far gone, you’d be gratified to hear how unsteady his voice is. “Does your _boyfriend_ touch you like this? He jerk you off? Or does he just _fuck_ you?” This last is punctuated by a bite to your neck, and you twitch.

“He’s -- ah! He’s not my boyfriend. He doesn’t…f-fuck me.”

It’s like he doesn’t even hear you. His hand is moving faster now, dry given way to slick, and your hips are meeting him stroke for stroke, fine beads of sweat breaking out along your hairline, the small of your back. The harshness of your combined breathing mingles with the wet sound of his hand on your flesh, and it feels like every muscle in your body is drawn tight to the point of pain; you’re going to break soon. You’re so _close_.

And he’s hard against your hip but he still won’t let you touch him, you try, but he just bares his teeth and grits, “ _No_ ,” so you kiss him instead and thank God he lets you do that at least, the slippery dance of tongues and teeth, his _hand_. He presses his forehead to yours -- his eyes are dark, so dark -- and rasps, “Come on, Petey. Come for me.”

Helpless, you do. He swallows your low, shuddering cry in another fierce kiss.

For a few moments, he lets you be limp. The way you’re sort of draped over him is like an embrace, and even in your decidedly fractured state you’re still able to appreciate the warm solidity of him, the familiarity of it. You don’t care that you’re supposed to be pissed off at him for doing this -- you could stay like this for _hours_.

Then he gently but firmly detangles himself from you, and you remember that yeah, things are still pretty fucked up. More so now, if that’s possible.

Gary grimaces and wipes his hand off -- on _your_ pajama pants, you notice sourly, and for the first time you’re aware of the pain in the wrist he pinned to the wall. When you examine it, you’re startled to see a dark bruise there. Either he was gripping you a lot tighter than you thought, or you were trying really hard to get that hand back.

He follows your gaze down to the bruise, and his expression twists into a bitter smile. “Ah,” he says. “Souvenir. Let’s see you try to explain that to Hopkins.”

“I told you--”

“I know what you told me.” He backs away, and now his face is entirely in shadow again. You feel cold. “Doesn’t mean I believe a word of it.”

“Gary. Wait. _Please_.”

“See you around, femme boy.” You catch a flash of his teeth in the darkness. Your door opens. “Tell Hopkins I said hello.” With that, he’s gone.

You lock the door behind him, but you still don’t sleep for the rest of the night. It takes over a week for the bruise to fade away entirely.

You hate yourself a little for feeling sad about that.

 

  
**VII.**  


  
Oddly enough, the boy's dorm was immune to most of the chaos. Most, not all, and you spent a decent part of your day ducking from people out for blood (not yours, necessarily, but like that matters), but now it seems to be winding down and you can sit on the front steps unmolested. The cops and prefects running by pay you no attention, and for the first time in your life you're glad that nobody notices you.

Jimmy staggers up the walk and collapses onto the steps just below you. He's got a black eye and a split lip, and his knuckles look like he's been trying to punch out a brick wall, but aside from that he seems okay and you're glad for it. You tell him so, and he heaves a huge, weary sigh.

"That fucking _psycho_ ," he says.

"Who? Gary?"

"Who else?" He rubs at his battered knuckles, frowning. "The little rat bastard nearly killed me. We fell through a skylight. A goddamn skylight!"

"Is he okay?" Your stomach twists and you lean forward in spite of yourself, lean back again just as quickly when Jimmy shoots you a sharp look.

"Why’d you want to know?” His eyes narrow as you stammer, and then he shakes his head and presses the heels of his palms to his eyes. “Whatever, I don’t care. He’s fine. Concussed, probably, but fine. Happy?”

“Yeah, sure.” Both of you sigh now, Jimmy slouching back and you slouching forward, the stone steps cold beneath your legs. You’re thinking about Gary’s “big plans” and how quickly he spiraled out of control, how you wish you’d noticed or done something or said something. Jimmy tilts his head back.

“You sounded worried,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“Just a minute ago. I walk up covered in blood and bruises and who knows what else, and you’ve got the nerve to ask if freakin’ Gary _Smith_ is okay? What the hell, Pete?”

He doesn’t sound angry, or even particularly irritated. Just curious, and very, very tired. You look away from the calm question in his eyes and look to the main building instead, all the people swarming around it like excited ants. You wonder if you’re ever going to see Gary again. Eventually, you turn back to Jimmy.

“He was my friend,” you say simply. “I know he’s not anymore, but he was once and…” You trail off, embarrassed and depressed. “I know you’re fine. Him, I just…”

Jimmy looks at you for a long time without saying anything. Finally, he shakes his head. “I do not get you, Pete. I really don’t.”

“I…sorry.” There’s not really anything else you can say.

He just waves one of his bloodied hands and tells you to forget it. “I just think it’s really fucking weird that you worry about him, everything he’s done to you. Your friend.” He snorts, shakes his head. The grin he shoots you is wry and wearily amused. “You sure can pick ‘em.”

You’re not sure who’s more surprised by your tiny smile -- you or him. “I’m friends with you, aren’t I?”

“See? That’s exactly what I mean.”

There’s a fire truck in front of the school now, although you’re pretty sure it’s too late for that. None of the firefighters seem to be in any hurry, so it’s probably just a formality sort of thing. You rest your chin in your hands. “He’s not coming back, is he.”

Jimmy’s hunched shoulders, the blood on his shirt. “Nope.”

You didn’t think so. Silently, you watch the cops and the prefects herd the disorderly students into something resembling a straight line. It’s starting to rain again.

 

  
**VIII.**  


  
He's not in a straightjacket anymore. You're thankful for that, at least. The first time you went, they had him restrained and drugged to boot, and you were shocked at how strung-out he looked. The bruises from his fight with Jimmy were still dark against his skin, and his eyes were as glassy as doll's eyes, about as aware. The feverish intelligence you'd come to know and expect was long gone.

"Peeeeetey." The drugs. He was slurring and badly so, and in that moment you wanted to go over to him and maybe put a hand on his shoulder, offer some sort of wordless comfort. No one would tell you how long he was supposed to stay locked up -- until his parents got back from their vacation, at the very least -- and although you supposed it was the best thing for him, it still broke your heart to see him that way.

His eyes. It was like he couldn't focus. "Petey, you little...you little bitch, look what they _did_ to me...Petey..."

They told you to keep your distance, but.... "It's okay, Gary. I'm here."

He lunged for you then, surprisingly fast, but the drugs and the restraints did their work and he dropped again to the tile floor as the attendants swarmed in with their syringes and rubber blankets and pushed you out of the way. Too many bodies, you couldn't _see_ him, but you could hear him howling. Some of the words in there sounded like your name. You caught only a glimpse of one wildly flailing leg and then his face, twisted with rage and fear, before they bustled him through a set of metal double-doors and you lost sight of him entirely.

The doctor wasn't pleased. "Maybe it would be better if you didn't visit anymore," he said after they made you fill out an incident report. "He's..." Even through the supposedly soundproof walls you could hear the screams of the inmates, the hoarse, desperate sobbing. Goosebumps rose on your arms. "He's unstable."

Gary's got a chart several inches thick. Whatever's wrong with him, it's been wrong with him for a while.

You probably should've listened, but you can't let that be it. You _can't_. Even after everything, you still feel somewhat responsible for him, and the thought of him locked up in a place like that makes you feel sick. He's supposed to be getting help, but you have your doubts about how helpful Happy Volts can be. You've heard Jimmy's stories, you've seen it for yourself. When his parents come to get him, maybe then he'll be okay, but in the meantime...

 _Some_ one has to help him remember who he is. You visit every other day, and with the exception of the day he was restrained, he doesn't speak a word to you.

He's talkative enough with everyone else. By the third day, he knows all the attendants by name. He asks about their families, makes pleasant chit-chat about the weather, and you don't understand how none of them can hear how fake he is. He smiles plenty, but none of those smiles ever reach his eyes. Are you really the only one who knows him well enough to see this? It's like Bullworth Academy all over again, and with a sinking heart you realize it will only be a matter of time until he's got them eating out of the palm of his hand.

With you, he doesn't bother smiling. You might as well be a blank wall for all the notice he gives you. He doesn't even look at you, and when his eyes do happen to wander into your general vicinity it's like he's staring through you instead of at you, like you're a blank space, like you're empty air. It hurts a lot more than it should, and in desperation you fill up the silence with inane conversation until your visitation hour is up. If he's even listening to you, you have no idea.

And then, one afternoon, with no warning whatsoever, his gaze sharpens and he cocks his head and says, "How's Hopkins?” No preamble, no nothing, and when you gape at him he rolls his eyes in an all-too-familiar way and says, "Hellooo, earth to the dork. I asked you a question. How's your _boyfriend_?"

It's like nothing ever happened. The cold shoulder he's been giving you for weeks, it's like it never happened. "He's fine." He just looks at you. "And he's not my boyfriend. I told you that."

"Whatever. Your fuck-buddy, then."

And just like that, you're pissed off. You could take the silent treatment, you could take the...whatever it was that happened the night he snuck into your room, and you could even take him being a demented asshole, but you're _tired_ of this and he just won't drop it and not even the look of faint surprise on his face when you get up is enough to make you feel better.

"You know what?" you tell him. "I'm done. I'm _done_."

He raises an eyebrow. "Ooh, did I strike a nerve?"

The worst part is that you can still hear the old Gary in his voice, the one who stopped just short of being mean, the one who’d grin against your mouth and shove his hands under your shirt, the one who whispered that you were his, all his. You wish, desperately, that you had his wit or Jimmy’s bluntness, because then you’d know exactly what to say to wipe that smirk off his face, but it’s like someone’s turned to a station full of static in your mind and all you can think to do is shake your head.

“Shut up, Gary.” Your voice is very quiet. “Just…shut up. You don’t know anything.”

You’re halfway to the door before he realizes that you’re really going to walk out. “Wait. Where the hell are you going?” He sounds almost stricken. “You can’t leave.”

“Why? It’s not like you want me here anyway.”

A number of expressions flicker over his face then, fear and disbelief chief among them, but he doesn’t contradict you and it’s with slouching shoulders and a heavy heart that you turn and knock on the observation window. “I’m ready to go, please.” A loud buzz signals to let you know you can leave.

“Fine!” Gary snaps from behind you. “I’ve been trying to get you to leave for _weeks_ now! It’s about time you got the goddamn hint.” His hoarse voice cracks. He’s shouting now. “I never wanted you here anyway! You’re _weak_! YOU WERE ALWAYS WEAK, PETEY!”

Your jaw clenched, your back tense, you walk straight through the doors at the end of the hall and don’t look back. You keep going until you can’t hear him anymore, at least not out loud, and it’s not until you’re finally outside the asylum gates than do you finally let yourself break.

The tears aren’t for him. They’re not.

You just wish you more convinced of that.

You’ve never been a very good liar, not even to yourself.

 

  
**IX.**  


  
It turns out that being the Head Boy really isn’t that different than being a regular student, only you get to wear a nice jacket and the other students are less inclined to beat you up. They still try, of course -- it takes a little while for the jocks to catch on to the change, for example -- but for the most part everyone leaves you alone. “Everyone” unfortunately including the other prefects, who were perfectly happy with the system before you came along and don’t see any reason to switch things up now that you’re on board.

“Everyone” also includes Gary Smith.

You’re still not sure how you feel about that.

After your last disastrous visit, you didn’t see him again, not for lack of trying -- when you went back a few days later (why, you still aren’t sure, and maybe you just hated leaving things on _that_ note), the orderlies informed you that his parents had arrived and checked him out, presumably to bring him home to stay. He hadn’t left you a note, and you hadn’t expected one. You thought that was going to be the last of it.

Imagine your shock when you found out that his parents were funding the library renovations. You knew his family was rich, but…

When the renovations are complete, the building is going to be called the Smith Library. You can’t decide if the staggering irony of this is funny or horrifying, and so you try not to think about it too much. With such a generous donation, there wasn’t a chance in hell that Crabblesnitch could refuse to re-admit him.

Gary. He's...not the Gary you remember. The old outward charm is still there, just as it was in Happy Volts, but he's harder now, more brittle, like one of those rocks with secret cracks running through them and all you have to do is tap them the right way with a hammer for them to split apart. You're not surprised -- the students at Bullworth know what he is this time around and most of them are still a little sore about last year. For a week or so, the cliques are all reunited again, but this time it's against _him_ , and you wonder what it costs him to keep that cocky smirk in place when they push him around, how hard it is for him to keep his tongue (and his fists) in check when he’s spit on, shoved in a locker, kicked.

Eventually, Jimmy notices and not-so-subtly puts the word out that Gary is not to be touched. Ever. You’re not the one who prompts him to do this (you tried with the prefects, but they just laughed and ignored you), so the edict surprises you -- when you ask, Jimmy just grins and cracks his knuckles. “Gary’s a psycho,” he says, “but he’s _our_ psycho. If anyone’s gonna beat the crap of him, it’s you and me.”

Not that you’d want to. And you don’t think Jimmy does either, not really, because mostly he just goes out of his way to avoid Gary, and after those first tumultuous weeks, everyone else does too. Eventually, the cliques remember that they hate each other more than they hate him, and his transgressions fade into the background of their collective consciousness. You never thought you’d be thankful that most of your energy is spent trying to keep them from beating each other up, but as long as that means you’re not trying to keep them off of him, you’re happy.

Sort of. He’s still ignoring you, which rankles a lot more than you thought it would. There’s so much you want to say, so much that you wish he’d say…you go looking for him, but he’s not in any of his usual haunts (namely, his room) and in desperation you go looking for him in the last place you’d expect to find him.

Which, of course, is exactly where he is.

The football players and cheerleaders are all at the cafeteria, so the field is mostly deserted. You find him sitting the bleachers with his arms folded over his knees. A faint breeze rustles his hair and the field's halogen lights cast half his face in pensive shadow. He doesn't look over when you sit down next to him, but as soon as you're settled he speaks.

"I'm not sorry about any of it," he says. Conversational. You haven't really spoken to him since he returned, but right now he's acting like you were talking just five minutes ago.

It's nice.

"How screwed up is that?" he's saying. "The head doctor said part of this whole deal was to make amends and I've been apologizing until I'm blue in the face, and all I feel is, is..." His nose wrinkles. "... _disgust_. They're all wallowing in it, Gary Smith brought so low that he has to slink back and beg for their forgiveness. Ha! Losers, all of them. I don't regret a goddamn thing." He exhales harshly and scrubs a hand through his hair. "Maybe I really am crazy."

There are a lot of things you could say to that, but you don't. Instead, all you say is, "You never apologized to me."

Now he does look at you. "That's different."

"Why?"

"Because." His lips twitch; a stifled smile or discomfort, you can't tell. "I actually feel bad about what I did to you."

You blink.

"Oh, don't look so surprised. I'm not _that_ heartless."

"I thought you didn't regret any of it."

"I _don't_. Except..."

With the sun behind the hills, it's cooling down fast, and you wish you'd brought your jacket along because the breeze has picked up into a wind and it's biting through your thin shirt. If Gary feels the cold, he doesn't show it. He's looking at you with an expression you've never seen on him before, an odd combination of sadness and pride and faint apprehension, and his voice is so low you have to strain to hear him.

"I fucked you over pretty bad, didn't I, Petey?"

Gary's not the only one who's changed. Instead of stammering or avoiding the subject, all you say is, "Yeah. You did."

In the fading light, his eyes are dark. "I'm sorry. If nothing else, I'm sorry about that."

You don’t tell him it’s okay. And you don’t tell him that you’re sorry too. You just meet his eyes and say, “I forgive you,” and watch as his expression crumples around the edges before he gets ahold of himself and looks away.

His hand finds yours on the bleacher bench. His grip is strong, a little panicky, but he relaxes a little when you squeeze back, as if he’s reassured that you’re not going anywhere. Silent, nothing more to say for the moment, you watch as the lights of the town appear through the trees on the other end of the field, where they wink like fireflies through the slowly shifting branches. His palm is hot and dry against yours and neither of you move for a very long time.

You missed this.

 

  
**X.**  


  
He doesn't go back to avoiding you after that, but neither does he make any overt gestures of friendship. It's like he's waiting for something, and you know instinctively that what he's waiting for is you. He's _said_ his piece; at least, all of it that he knows how to say. What happens next is up to you, and the sudden shift of power this brings is a little exhilarating.

It’s also frightening. You're terrified you're going to screw this up.

So you act normal. Easy. You plunk your tray down next to his in the cafeteria, you offer up your chemistry notes for study sessions, you stop by his room in the late afternoon and ask if maybe he wants to go into town, catch a movie or something before curfew drops and you have to make your rounds. Through it all you blithely ignore the faint confusion in his expression, and although it's obvious he doesn't trust you just yet, he still goes along with it. You both do. He can't figure you out, that's the problem, that's why he's still suspicious even after he apologized and you accepted. The way you're acting with him, he thinks you _want_ something.

He's right. You do, sort of. He just totally wrong about what.

The first week, he's tense, outwardly suspicious. Your overtures of friendship are met with narrowed eyes and clipped sentences, like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop and it pisses him off that you're trying to mess with him. But after that first week his vague hostility gives way to confusion, because you're acting exactly the same and the other shoe still hasn't dropped and he doesn't know what to do with that. You can almost _see_ the gears turning in his freaky, complicated brain. Does he meet kindness with kindness? Does he go all crazy-hostile at you again? Does he ignore you, embrace you, what?!

Then, after the second week passes and you still haven't lashed out or done anything else bizarre, he seems to give up on trying to figure you out and now he's just rolling with it. There are actual traces of humor showing up in his sarcasm again, and in some ways it reminds you of how you used to be around each other. Different, though. You're more relaxed now, but the situation itself feels like something suspended; there's a sense of waiting, a thing incomplete. The watchfulness in his eyes sometimes when he looks at you, you're pretty sure he feels it too.

Both of you are waiting for something to happen.

About a month after your interlude by the football field, you’re studying in his room for a test you have in history later that week. When you first started meeting for these study sessions, you’d take the desk or the floor while he took the bed, but eventually he got annoyed and told you it wasn’t like he was going to _bite_ , and after that you sat up there with him, one of you at the foot and the other at the head, for all the world like little mismatched bookends. You used to hang out like this back before he went crazy, and you relish the normality of it. Sometimes, you forget that things are still technically weird between the two of you.

Gary doesn’t forget, though, and as usual, he has absolutely no sense of timing about it.

You’re flipping through the index of your history textbook, trying to find the section on the Reign of Terror because there’s something illegible written in your class notes and you have a feeling it’s important, when you feel his eyes on you and you look up. Instead of reviewing your outline, which is what he was doing about two minutes ago, he’s sitting there cross-legged, staring at you, a carefully blank expression on his face.

“What are you doing?” he says.

“Studying for our test on the French Revolution?” You close your textbook and squint at him. “Which you’re supposed to be studying for too?” He’s still staring at you. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“ _What_ ,” he says again, more slowly this time, “are you _doing_?”

Your brow furrows. “I just told you,” you begin, and flinch in surprise when he vaults from the bed in an angry flurry of limbs and starts pacing.

“No!” he snaps. “That’s not what you’re doing. You’re…you’re being _nice_. You’re being _friendly_. Like nothing is WRONG.” His pacing brings him back over to where you’re sitting dumbfounded on his bed, and he leans down, his nose inches from yours, his expression one of wild-eyed uncertainty. “A month of this, now, and you haven’t said a word. What are you doing? What do you _want_?”

Ah. You get it now. You got to him. It took forever, but you finally got to him, and when he couldn’t take it anymore, he broke. For the first time, you’re the one with the upper hand, because with the way he’s looking at you now, you could tell him you don’t want a thing and he might actually believe it.

But that’s not exactly true, is it? That you don’t want anything. You do. You _want_. He’s angrily demanding answers, and all you can think about is the slow burn in your stomach whenever you’re around him, how you’re tired of always being the one to take the high, noble road with these things.

He takes a deep breath -- probably to yell at you, since you still haven’t said anything -- and you push up off the bed and close the scant inches between your mouths with a kiss.

Gary goes rigid. It’s obvious you’ve taken him completely by surprise because he doesn’t kiss back. That’s okay. You kiss him anyway, your hands fisted in the front of his shirt, your lips on his, and after a moment you pull back slightly and look up into his wide, shocked eyes. “That’s what I want,” you tell him. You swallow, let go of his shirt, offer him an apologetic half-smile. “Sorry.”

He sits down heavily next to you and runs a hand through his hair. “Don’t apologize.” He sounds distracted, surprised. “You’re not screwing around with me?”

You shake your head. “No.”

“Oh.”

Both of you fall silent, and all the things you want to say are itching underneath your skin, maddening, until finally you can’t take it anymore and burst out, “Is that a good ‘oh’ or a bad one? Because this is driving me nuts.”

The corner of his mouth tilts up a little. “Patience is a virtue, Petey. I’m thinking.”

Oh, for the love of…

This time, he kisses you back, presses you down onto the bed with his hands framing your face, and you wrap around him and you kiss him and you kiss him and both of you forget how to speak.

 

  
**Epilogue**  


  
For a guy who’s pretending to be asleep, he sure has a lot to say about what you should be watching on the crappy little tv set in your common room.

“ESPN.”

“Too many steroids.”

“Cartoons.”

“Too juvenile.”

“Are you serious? I caught you watching this last week!”

“Doesn’t mean I enjoyed it. Keep going.”

“Fine. CNN. CSPAN. FOX News. More cartoons. That dinosaur thing.”

“No. No. Are you a moron? No. What dinosaur thing?”

“You know.” You wave the remote control vaguely. “On Animal Planet?”

He makes a face, his eyes still closed. “No.”

“Oh, whatever. You’re not even watching it!”

“I have _ears_ , don’t I?” He opens one eye and looks up at you from where his head is resting in your lap. “I don’t want to listen to something insipid. Keep looking.”

“Picky, picky,” you mutter. When you glance down at him again, his eyes are closed, and you quickly flip back to the cartoons he nixed earlier. Sure enough, he frowns.

“What,” he says, “is that?”

“Nothing.”

“That is not nothing.” This time, he opens both eyes, and when he sees what you’re watching he grabs the remote. “You little sneak, Petey. I think I liked it better when you didn’t have a backbone.” You swat his head. “Ow! What was that for?”

“Be nice to me,” you say mildly, “or I won’t play with your hair anymore.”

He makes an exasperated noise, but settles down just as you suspected he would. He even lets you take the remote control back, although he won’t stop grumbling about your taste in tv shows. You smirk and press his temple in slow circles, the sort that always make him go boneless.

“Nggh,” Gary says, and goes utterly limp.

“You’re pretty talkative for a guy who’s supposedly sleeping,” you tell him.

“Yeah, yeah. Just find us a damn tv show to watch already.”

You finally settle on something moronic, an action movie about super-intelligent sharks, and eventually his acerbic comments trail away and he dozes off for real. The fingers of his right hand are loosely entwined with yours, and you half-wonder what the others might say if they came in and saw you now, the two of you practically cuddling, in public, like it’s no big deal. Good thing Gary’s asleep.

You smile, and switch back to the cartoons.


End file.
